


Fast Cars and Bright Young Stars

by MissBJinx



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Car Racing, F/F, F/M, Nightlife, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Suspected Murder, Suspicious death, berena - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 19:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11698380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissBJinx/pseuds/MissBJinx
Summary: 1932.Berenice Griselda Wolfe dreams that there is more to life than the crushing inevitability that she will eventually wed the charming yet dull Marcus Dunn and settle down to the comfortable yet mundane existence of a country doctor’s wife.A keen amateur racing driver, Marcus begins to compete at the newly-opened Holby Speedway.Bernie’s world is soon turned upside down when she falls beneath the captivating spell of Serena Campbell: a flirtatious, indomitable woman who is determined to reach the very top of the motor racing world in her little Bugatti Type 51.As the two women grow closer, Bernie’s life is about to change irreparably as she finds herself being drawn into the murky dealings of the bohemian world within an exclusive London private members’ club and the high-profile glamour of the racing set.Surrounded by scandal, jealous rivalries and the lingering shadow cast by the suspicious circumstances of Edward Campbell’s death in 1929, will Bernie and Serena’s fledgling relationship survive the strain?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this little fic came about as a result of the fact that I’ve been researching some of the amazing women racers in the earlier days of motorsport (seriously, if you have the time, look up the likes of Hellé Nice and Kay Petre!) and this photo (below) of Maria Teresa de Filippis (the first ever woman to race in Formula 1) caught my eye… especially her passing resemblance to a young Catherine Russell!
> 
> https://68.media.tumblr.com/4c011851bd6899168f2068f3c42cce96/tumblr_inline_os0an36OnT1syqmhw_540.jpg
> 
> Anyway, this got me thinking and this little 1930s racing driver AU was born! 
> 
> I'm hoping to write a few chapters, so I would love to know what you think!

**21 November 1929**

The sombre peal of church bells tolled in mournful unison as the assembled funeral procession stood around the graveside in a whispering ebony sea of bowed heads and respectful utterances of condolence.

A heavy roll of thunder precipitated the arrival of stinging, cold bullets of rain which drummed a macabre ostinato upon the partially interred coffin.

The young widow maintained an appropriate air of detached dignity, moving patiently through the expected formalities of grief as the proceedings drew to a close. A thin black veil which whipped slightly in the chilly November breeze all but masked her features from the gaze of passers-by.

A small smile of relief curled upon her lips within the chiffon sanctuary as the late Edward Campbell was finally swallowed down to rot in the depths of the earth, small clods of freshly-dug soil raining down in a muddy shower and obscuring the brass nameplate upon the coffin.

_It was done._

Whilst it would be an exaggeration to state that she had yearned for this day, she certainly had felt little sadness upon her husband’s passing.

She held her head high as she strode confidently out of the graveyard.

A future of freedom awaited.

* * *

 

**4 June 1932 (Morning)**

_It was hard to tell one morning apart in one hundred…_ Berenice Wolfe thought idly to herself as she sat in her usual place at the breakfast table in the tastefully decorated middle class dining room which served as stage to a highly predictable morning ritual of sorts.

To her left her father, Doctor Jerome Wolfe, rustled a crisp copy of the morning’s Telegraph and sighed with enough velocity to ruffle the uppermost whiskers of his considerable moustache. Clearing his throat gruffly, he poked a blunt finger in disgust at the contents of the second page before grumbling quietly to himself in a rambling monologue about the state of the politicians who were supposedly running the country. A skilled technician, he was still responsible for the general overseeing of the small local hospital and for guiding young trainees in the right direction.

To the doctor’s immediate left sat an abandoned wooden crutch which he leant upon heavily to maintain his balance when walking; a lasting souvenir of a bloody shrapnel injury from when he had served as a Captain in the Great War which had decimated the majority of the lower part of his left leg.

Berenice’s mother Victoria, an exceedingly quiet woman with wispy, greying blonde hair piled up in a distinctly outmoded style which hadn’t altered in the best part of twenty years, sat opposite, apparently silently engrossed in the act of delicately nibbling upon a lightly buttered slice of toast.

Bernie’s knuckles turned white in their death grip around the delicate bone china coffee cup as she attempted not to bristle at the familiar soundtrack which had accompanied every morning in recent living memory.

Life and its unspoken expectations had begun to grate on her of late. The same crushing mundanity, apparently embraced without a second thought by her friends as one by one they succumbed to the perpetual malady of marriage and eternal provided-for security in the guise of their comfortably rich, yet equally boring spouses.

_There has to be something more… something else… something different…_

It wasn’t as if her father had even pretended to be remotely subtle in encouraging his young junior, the recently-qualified Doctor Marcus Dunn in his attempts to pay court to his only daughter.

Fresh-faced, eager, kind and unbearably without obvious personal fault, Berenice was finding it hard to suggest a plausible reason to reject the inevitable proposal from Marcus which was hurtling towards her at an unstoppable trajectory.

It wasn’t even as if she didn’t like the poor chap. He was more than amiable company, blessed with a sense of humour of some description; a skilled medic of some local repute.

All in all, a very _safe_ catch.

But relatively dull, nonetheless. 

As if he had overheard her treacherous thoughts, her father set aside his paper with a weary sigh and took a deep restorative draught of his coffee.

Thankfully, Marcus had one redeemable vice on his side. Motorsport.

He had recently acquired a second-hand MG M-Type roadster–a veteran of the previous season at Brooklands no less–which he had (at considerable discouragement from Dr Wolfe surrounding the financial and personal dangers of the sport) set about readying for the inaugural race season at Holby Speedway. Three races into the calendar and he was already achieving a modest level of success in the amateur field.

It had taken considerable effort on Bernie’s part to persuade her father to allow her to accompany Marcus to the race meets, but her skilled persistence had won out and he had eventually relented.

At least _,_ she thought to herself as she made her excuses and rose from the table, there was something vaguely interesting to look forward to on Saturday afternoons.

* * *

  **4 June 1932 (Afternoon):** **Holby Speedway**

“Mind if I sit here?”

Bernie was distracted from her daydream by the arrival of a dapperly dressed young man in a smartly tailored pinstriped navy suit and boater who slid into the only vacant seat in the front row of the banked stands which flanked the start-finish straight of the Holby Speedway.

“Dominic!” she beamed in recognition of an old friend as her boyish-faced companion grinned by means of reply. “I haven’t seen you in months!”

A childhood friend, Dominic had since worked at the local hospital as a trainee pharmacist until moving away in the last year. Bernie had missed the presence of his acerbic wit more than she cared to let on.

“Moved up to London a few months ago, I’m afraid old thing.” Dominic Copeland shrugged, “In pursuit of fame and fortune and all that…. If that’s what you can call a job in an advertising company. Still, it’s an interesting life… more going on up there than out in the sticks. Thought I’d pop down for the racing occasionally–”

He broke off as the stream of cars for the final race were pushed onto the grid from the pits.

“Still, what brings you to the Speedway? Didn’t think it would be your cup of tea necessarily… unless you’d taken up driving instead?” he tilted his head knowingly at his childhood friend. “Or is there a new beau on the scene by chance?”

“Something like that…” Bernie muttered awkwardly, suddenly unsure of exactly what Marcus was to her. “He’s racing today.”

“So keen?” Dom commented sardonically as his old friend visibly floundered. “Why, it must have been love at first sight!”

“Well…it’s not like that exactly…” Bernie attempted to rephrase her apparent dismissal of Marcus. Thankfully, Dom intervened before she attempted to provide further thought to her burgeoning relationship with Marcus.

“Now, if you’re looking for someone interesting in this final race, just you take a look over there. Car 19. She’s someone to really watch out for…” he proffered an unnecessarily large pair of binoculars in Bernie’s general direction.

“She?” Bernie questioned Dominic's unexpected choice of pronoun, interest suddenly piqued as she focused the powerful dual lenses upon the burgundy red Bugatti Type 51 which sat gleaming proudly halfway along the tarmac of the sweeping start-finish straight. A slender woman clad in a loosely-belted set of tailored navy overalls which clung to her gently curvaceous hips and displayed an enviable waist, joked easily with her two young mechanics as she made her final stringent checks to her craft.

An unfamiliar thrill fluttered alarmingly in Bernie’s chest as she continued to covertly survey the mystery racer. “I didn’t know that–”

“The BARC lifted the ban on women racing alongside men earlier this year, so the Holby committee has finally followed suit!” Dom grinned, “And the scarily competitive Mrs Serena Campbell has taken full advantage of the new procedures. Not satisfied with ruling the roost in the women’s races, she’s out to best the men as well. With that glittering new Bugatti of hers, I reckon that she stands a decent chance at ruffling a few feathers today.”

He threw a gleeful look at the sleek navy Alvis Silver Eagle which occupied the pole-position for the final grid of the day. The confident driver dismissed his team with a relaxed wave of his hand before clambering into the driving seat and quietly contemplating the first sharp right-handed bend which sat several hundred feet ahead of him. 

“I don’t think that Guy Self will know what’s hit him…he’s been pretty much unchallenged this season.” Dom whispered conspiratively from behind his hand to Bernie.

Several feet below them, an enthusiastic Marcus Dunn swiftly donned his helmet and jumped into the awaiting dark green MG M-Type which sat on the second row of the grid, directly in front of where Bernie and Dom stood. His friendly upwards wave was unintentionally ignored by his would-be-suitor as she continued to steadfastly observe Serena Campbell, who, apparently aware of feeling an unknown pair of eyes on her, turned her head slightly to gaze directly towards the spectators stand.

A pair of ruby-stained lips twitched inquisitively, a neatly pencilled eyebrow quirked in a silent challenge towards the invader of her privacy, almost as if to say “ _I can see you, you know…”_

Bernie sucked in her breath sharply as her gaze collided resonantly with Serena’s through the powerful lenses. Her chest constricted tightly, nerves jangling with a raw electricity as she could have sworn that the glamourous racing driver had thrown a swift, jaunty wink in her direction. As a dumbstruck Bernie attempted to remember how to breathe, the mysterious racing driver leapt athletically over the side of the car door and slid into the driving seat of her craft, donning a pristine white leather helmet and lowering a pair of goggles over her eyes with a steely determination. 

Pulse rising, a blushing Bernie abruptly lowered the binoculars to her lap; suddenly aware that she had been staring at the mysterious Bugatti driver for far longer than was strictly polite.

“How does one go about becoming a racing driver, I wonder? Especially as a woman…” Bernie mused as she attempted fruitlessly to continue to look away from the magnetic spectacle of the Bugatti driver.

“Rumour has it that she inherited an absolute fortune upon her husband’s rather suspicious death a few years ago….” Dominic continued quietly, “Stabbed, apparently. Nasty business, it was all over the papers…”

The shock must have registered in Bernie’s eyes as he continued swiftly.

“But, the police never actually _formally_ accused her of having anything to do with it, although there certainly was a lot of speculation at the time... Regardless of what happened or not, Mrs Campbell invested her inheritance wisely it seems. She started running the Campbell estate over near Lenton as a successful mechanised farm and bought into the right companies at the right time; quite the businesswoman by all accounts. Started racing a couple of years ago in a beaten-up old Delage, but really started making headway last year when she raced Eric Griffin’s Riley in the Women’s Cup whilst he was recovering from a broken leg. I believe that she flies as well; belongs to the Holby Aerodrome, I think…”

“Quite the fan, aren’t you…” Bernie smirked as she gently nudged her old friend, secretly delighted to have her verbal sparring partner back at her side.

“Hark who’s talking!” Dominic countered with a mischievous grin.

 

Several stables worth of assembled mechanical horsepower gradually rippled into life with a chorus of earth-shattering roars at the starter’s first signal; an unmistakeable concoction of petrol fumes and Castrol oil vapour rising into the humid summer air in a sickly perfume with each exploratory nudge to the accelerator as the fuel pressure gauges quivered and settled. Several mechanics retreated hastily to the sides of the track, scurrying out of the path of the glittering thoroughbred machines which sat champing impatiently at the bit.

Bernie leant forward against the cool metal railings, her pulse quickening with an unanticipated excitement for the five lap sprint race as all eyes fixed intently upon the raised chequered flag. Time seemed to stand still before the white-coated official dropped his arm and the motorised might was finally unleashed in a series of throaty snarls as the assembled field thundered heavily towards the first corner.

Tinny commentary crackled into life with a loud hiss from the loudspeakers mounted above their heads. Enthusiastic yet occasionally incomprehensible jabbering from an over-excited, balding man in a tweed sports jacket who peered down upon the track from a lofty stance above the stands which was broadcast into the clement summer air.

Bernie felt a loud whoop of enthusiasm escape from her lips as she joined the excited crowd in encouraging their favourites onward; the small Bugatti kicking up a small cloud of dust from the scrabbling front tyres as it swung out wide in preparation and used its superior speed to deftly cut in across the apex of the tight bend, boldly overtaking a couple of surprised Vauxhalls.

The field momentarily disappeared out of sight into the densely wooded section of the track, yet all spectators who were able to twisted expectantly in their seats in the grandstand, waiting with bated breath for the first tell-tale glimpse of a gleaming radiator grill to come thundering into view over the top of the blind ascent into the tight chicane at the top end of the course.

They did not have long to wait before Car No. 8, the Alvis cleared the summit of the climb, greeted by a deafening roar from the onlookers. A slight gap had formed before a pair of Bentleys appeared, jostling intensely for second place, only for one of the drivers to severely misjudge the speed of the next bend and disappear from view into the Wyvern scenery to a shocked gasp from the crowd.  The next pack of cars to emerge from the hilltop were fronted by Marcus’s M-type, which was locked in a tight battle with an unrelenting Wolseley Hornet Special and a distinctly battered Peugeot which was putting in a surprisingly good showing for its age against the distinctly newer models in the field. The tightly-packed trio were closely trailed by– to the squawk of surprise from the commentator– Car No. 19, the red Bugatti, which had made up an impressive amount of ground from its mid-field starting position at the capable hands of Serena Campbell.

Bernie’s breath caught nervously in her throat as the distinctive horseshoe-shaped grille of the burgundy Bugatti began to inch closer to the main pack as its superior engine picked up speed on the back straight. Her torn loyalties caused her a slight twinge of guilt as she found herself inexplicably rooting for the driver that she had never met over the eager young man who had been attempting to pay court to her for the past four months.

By now the navy Alvis had swung up onto the tight banking section which precluded the final twist of the snaking track before it turned back onto the half-mile start-finish strait. The angle of the raked track was so steep that Bernie could see the driver clinging on grimly with his elbow protruding over the side of the cockpit as the narrow back wheels begun to slide in protest at the severity of the gradient.

The pursuing pack were starting to bunch up behind the M-type and Hornet as Marcus attempted to fend off the Peugeot; spreading out to four abreast across the banking. Bernie was suddenly aware of holding her breath as the little Bugatti seized the narrow margin of opportunity and glided up onto the steepest section of the bend, crucially holding its speed into the tight corner and edging past the duelling MG. The two drivers glanced sideways and locked eyes momentarily, neither wanting to concede ground before the banking dropped and levelled out, but it eventually transpired that it was Serena who held her nerve the longest, Marcus’s MG dropping back reluctantly as the Bugatti cleaved cleanly across the front of his car and set off in pursuit of the navy Alvis which had just crossed the start-finish line for its final lap.

Bernie leant forward as the Bugatti tucked in closely to the wall along the main straight in order to get the best approach to the first corner, her lightly curled hair ruffling in the breeze as the racing car passed so close that she was able to spy Serena’s clenched, gloved hands gripping tightly around the juddering wooden steering wheel, her slightly dimpled jaw set firmly in concentration as she wrestled to extract every ounce of available power from the small roadster as it shot past the second-placed Bentley.

Moments later, Bernie cheered Marcus as he evaded the rallying effort from the Peugeot to attempt to break into fourth position and thundered past, momentarily shrouded in a cloud of steam from an expiring Austin Seven which was limping slowly along in the vague hope of returning to the pits entrance.

By the time the front-running cars had crossed the finish line for the final time, and a number of participants had departed the race in a belching cloud of smoke, Serena had reined in the gap to Guy Self’s Alvis to a matter of seconds. All eyes were now focused upon the hilltop as the pair of front running cars appeared within moments of each other; weaving effortlessly through the myriad of slower cars as they approached the banking for the final time.

“Come on…” Bernie heard Dom from her right, almost inaudible above the roar of the engines, unsure of exactly whom he was addressing.

“She’ll never make it, there’s just simply not enough track left…” Bernie shook her head disbelievingly as the burgundy car squirmed uncomfortably at the tortuous angle that its able driver had chosen in order to evade a pair of dawdling back runners.

“Oh, I don’t know…” Dominic disagreed thoughtfully as he stared intensely through his binoculars as the nimble Bugatti faked a rapid lunge to the right before cutting back swiftly across the tarmac and taking the outside line around the unsuspecting Alvis in the final corner. “It’s going to be very close…”

A mighty roar of straining horsepower precluded the arrival of the two front-running cars as they gunned determinedly along the narrow tarmac straight; a well-timed gear change from the Bugatti resulting in the burgundy car nosing slightly ahead as they drew level with the grandstand of cheering on-lookers, holding on for Serena to take the chequered flag by half a length as she hurtled across the finish line, a leather-gloved fist briefly raised in triumph above her head.

The exuberant commentator reached previously uncharted levels of explosive excitement as Bernie turned to Dom with flushed cheeks, her sparkling eyes wide with excitement at witnessing the spectacle that had unfolded in front of her.

“Wasn’t she– I mean _that_ , absolutely incredible?” she leant over to shout in his ear over the din of the other racers who crossed the line in dribs and drabs, hastily correcting her slight verbal slip.

Dom chose not to reply immediately, but instead grinned from ear to ear at the sight of his enthusiastic friend who was seemingly entranced by the mysterious female racing driver.

Marcus eventually crossed the line in sixth place, almost unnoticed at first by an excited Bernie who eventually waved manically at the disappearing MG as it slowed towards the first corner. As the rest of the returning field dwindled along the straight to diminishing cheers, Dom quietly made his excuses and slipped out of his seat, promising a reunion of sorts as soon as he was able to return from London.

The thronging crowds soon began to filter impatiently out of the stands, hoping to catch a glimpse of the revered drivers before they were swallowed in turn by the greedy clamour of popping flashbulbs and jostling reporters who were all keen to be the one to capture the scoop of the day.

“Mrs Campbell!” a jumbled cry from the baying journalists went up as the returning Bugatti swept cleanly through the midst of the assembled crowd with a soft purr from the idling engine and halted outside the end garage of the pit lane with a confident wave from the victorious driver.

Bernie stood nearby, waiting for Marcus’s little MG to return; inexplicably captivated by the entrancing racer, subconsciously drinking in every last intoxicating detail of the enthralling woman who now stood several feet away from her.

A neat head of closely-cropped dark hair, almost boyish in length and swept cleanly away from an angular jawline slowly appeared into view upon the removal of helmet and goggles.

A single oil splatter christened her otherwise alabaster cheeks, a pair of liquid dark eyes glittering triumphantly; almost blazing in the adrenaline-fuelled thrill of victory.

Almost coquettish in manner, she conversed animatedly with the cluster of reporters which bustled noisily around her, batting back immediate replies to questions with a swift wit and sparkle almost bordering upon flirtatiousness; an inherent self-confidence which left many an outwitted journalist floundering helplessly in her charismatic wake.

Eventually tired of tabloid intrusion, she turned abruptly upon her heel and made to return to the quiet gloom of the pit lane garage. Bernie’s gaze followed Serena until she disappeared out of sight.

“There you are!” a friendly exclamation broke into Bernie’s preoccupied thoughts as Marcus laid a kindly hand upon her arm. “That was quite something, wasn’t it? Still, sixth wasn’t at all bad in that field! Mrs Campbell gave us all quite the run for our money!”

“I–, sorry,” Bernie smiled distractedly as she turned to greet Marcus, uncharacteristically flustered fingers plucking awkwardly at imaginary creases in the skirt of her tailored royal blue dress which was covered in tiny white polka dots. “Well done!”

“Shall we?” Marcus proffered his arm and gestured over his shoulder with a slight tilt of his head and a fond smile. It was their usual custom to follow up an afternoon’s racing with a quick drink in the member’s bar before heading out for afternoon tea at the renowned Queen’s Park Hotel in the centre of Holby.

“Of course.” Bernie took a deep breath and attempted to pull herself together as she threaded her arm through Marcus’s. “Let’s go.”

She determinedly affixed a broad smile upon confused lips; a tense expression which protesting muscles ached in their fruitless efforts to maintain.

 

Try as she might to dislodge it, the image of Serena Campbell was burnt indelibly into her mind’s eye.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bernie cannot wait to set eyes upon the mysterious Serena Campbell once more. However, when the next race meeting arrives, she gets more than she bargained for....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves*
> 
> Many thanks for sticking with this story- I've finally found the time to update! The next few chapters will follow a similar format split between the events surrounding Edward Campbell's death in 1929 and Bernie and Serena's growing friendship/relationship in 1932. I've done my best to research the cars/racing scene of the era, but apologies for any historical inaccuracies which may have crept in without me noticing!
> 
> As ever, comments and kudos make my day, so I would love to know what you think of this update! :)

**8 th November 1929**

The darkened shadows of Campbell Hall thrummed with an electric violence.

Years upon years of unspoken rage had finally boiled over into frothing madness.

 

Cursing; filthy utterances hanging in a dense miasma of jealous rage.

The glint of light upon a steel blade suddenly dissected the babbling cacophony of outraged voices and exposed a seam of raw fear.

“Edward…” a growled warning issued from between bared teeth went swiftly unheeded.

 

Young, wild eyes shivered feverishly as their owner attempted desperately to remain in control. Panicked breaths came in ragged gasps, thin arms wrapped tightly around bony kneecaps from a crouched position on the heavy carpeting.

 

_Noise. Too much noise._

 

“Edward, I’m warning you…”

 

_Run._

 

“NO!”

 

An enraged roar as a defensive arm swept upward and connected heavily with a jawline which was peppered with coarse evening stubble.

A desperate tussle worthy of a seasoned matador and drunken bull.

A sickening crunch as the traitorous blade turned upon its master and drove home into its final resting place between the third and fourth ribs; buried up to the hilt of the ornamental handle.

A sanguineous crimson gush across the immaculate white shirt as the felled beast plummeted headlong to the foot of the sweeping marble staircase.

 

Silence.

* * *

 

**Monday 6 th June 1932**

“Humph,”

A single derisive snort escaped from beneath Jerome Wolfe’s considerate moustache as he thoughtfully ruffled the pages of his breakfast newspaper.

His wife started, nervously flinching at the unexpected noise which shattered the quiet reverie of the breakfast table.

A million miles away, lost in a particularly gripping daydream, his only daughter didn’t even so much as blink. Her usual train of disinterested thoughts had been rudely hijacked by thoughts of a certain brunette racing driver since Saturday afternoon.

She couldn’t quite fathom what it was about Serena Campbell that had left the other woman’s likeness etched indelibly upon her innermost thoughts.

Her confidence? Her enviable freedom? Her skill?

_Something altogether darker..._ she shivered slightly as the ghost of a forbidden thought taunted her with the memory of _that_ wink.

She shook herself mentally. _You were but one face in a thousand…. nothing remarkable._

She hadn’t even found the courage to speak to the mysterious woman.

 

A lengthy draught of tea smacked wetly against her father’s lips before he returned to his ponderings.

“Damn dangerous, that motorsport…”

“Jerome…” a soft chiding from Victoria was swiftly ignored.

A deep grumble eventually escaped as fading eyesight combed the miniscule print. Despite the medic’s superior skill, he was reluctant to admit his apparent need for spectacles.

“Another poor unfortunate killed at the Speedway… another young imbecile with more money than sense, no doubt…”

Berenice Wolfe’s knuckles were as white as the bone china teacup which she was imminent danger of crushing. She settled for clearing her throat loudly and clattering her crockery in a futile bid to shut out the intrusive baritone drone.

“…and as for this nonsensical idea of letting women race alongside the men…well, that will end in tears, mark my words… I don’t approve of the racing set that you seem to be becoming involved with Berenice… girls wearing _trousers_ of all things… it’s not exactly dignified…”

A bewildered swat towards the sepia photograph.

Bernie felt her cheeks colour as her head snapped up to meet her father’s gaze in nothing short of pure contempt.

“I think you’ll find, father, that Mrs Serena Campbell won the final race of the day.” She snapped brusquely. “And she was rather brilliant, as a matter of fact. And extremely _dignified_.” She added coldly as she set about buttering her toast with such concentrated vigour that the silver knife tore holes in the defenceless crust.

The doctor blinked owlishly at the unexpectedly heated defence of the subject of his criticism.

“Campbell?” he queried, scanning the blurred photograph of a beaming brunette perched gleefully upon the bonnet of the victorious Bugatti.

“Indeed.” Bernie pursed her lips shortly.

“How quickly the young forget….” he murmured, slowly shaking his head.

“And what is that supposed to mean… father?” Bernie glared sullenly at her plate.

“My dear Berenice, whilst I do not doubt that this Ms. Campbell is capable of producing a victorious result… I was after all the person responsible for pronouncing her husband dead a mere two and a half years ago. Stab wounds are, after all, rarely self-inflicted.”

He quietly raised a disbelieving eyebrow as he examined the article once more.

“Best to stay well clear of such a woman in my opinion. Suspected murderesses are hardly good company, regardless of whether they invest their deceased husband’s money into racing cars or not.”

He continued his methodical dissection of his breakfast, as precise and unflappable as if it were a surgical patient upon his table instead of mere scrambled eggs. A slight frown graced his forehead at the unexpected diversion from the everyday conversational track.

“Innocent until proven guilty, father. All charges were dismissed.”

Bernie spat a hasty rebuttal as she pushed her chair back with an audible shriek of mahogany against polished floorboards.

“Excuse me. I’m needed to collect the records from the surgery at Lenton.”

“Give Marcus my regards.” Her father offered, unperturbed as his daughter stormed from the room with an audible slam of the door.

Bernie rested her back against the heavy timber as the soft murmur of voices and soft scraping of cutlery permeated the air once more. Not a single flicker of concern or annoyance at her unusually vocal display.

 

Nothing.

Nothing except sheer blinkered indifference.

Nothing ever changed.

Nothing ever strayed far from the predictable track of the day before.

 

Breakfast served at 8am, her father’s neatly ironed newspaper placed at his side by the maid who bobbed a neat courtesy and retreated the usual ten paces to the doorway.

A predictable commentary upon everyday news interspersed with occasional hot beverages and an otherwise lingering silence, heavy with imbued tradition and expectations.

A day spent at the little cottage hospital, labelling bottles, organising patient records and shepherding the more persistent visitors into waiting their turn.

She knew more about the bunion population of East Holby than she cared to imagine.

“I just _have_ to escape…” she hissed grimly, exhaling swiftly as she pushed herself upright and stalked angrily out of the house towards her awaiting bicycle; the one expression of freedom which she had fought to retain.

 

She pedalled until her calves ached with the sheer exertion of tackling the gruelling climb out of Holby centre, rising until she stood afoot the summit of the climb, far above the patchwork quilt of ochre and green fields which the neighbouring suburban sprawl of Lenton had begun to consume hungrily.

Dismounting, slightly breathlessly given the ferocity of her ride, she allowed a small smile to creep across her face.

The panoramic view from the top of Roofers Hill was Bernie’s favourite place in the entire world.

It was the nostalgic home of her childhood.

Of running at breakneck speed through the acres of tickly heather with squeals of glee, hiding for hours from Dominic and friends in a marathon game of hide and seek.

Of climbing to the very top of rocky crag and looking out to the horizon where the small port which served the city nestled, the masts of visiting ships visible from miles away.

It was the sanctuary of her adult life.

Returning home from war, an exhausted, mentally scarred eighteen-year-old who had been forced to make the hasty transition from naïve child to a battle-hardened nurse in the final months of the Great War. She had witnessed death, untold destruction and fought on through exhaustion, blood and guts in a seemingly futile attempt to piece back together a world which was shattering around her.

It was a place for sitting, watching the changing skies cast over the sea: the still waters of a shimmering, pearlescent sunset or the angry grey of winter storms which sent the breakers hissing up the pebbles of the shingle beach in a frothing milk foam.

A distraction.

Bernie exhaled deeply as the wind ruffled reassuringly through the escaping tendrils of hair which framed her face.

At least whilst she stood upon this spot, comfortably isolated from all those below, her world was at peace.

She collected her bicycle and sat at the top of the sheer slope down into Lenton. A swift push sent her careering down the hill with a triumphant grin of joy.

Some childhood habits were hard to break.

* * *

  **Saturday 18 June 1932: Pit Lane, Holby Speedway**

"About bloody time, Adrian Fletcher!”

A terse greeting from pair of overall-clad legs protruding from beneath the burgundy Bugatti.

“What part of ‘I need my car today’ have you so far failed to understand? Never mind, I’ve fixed it myself after all that dithering…"

"Umm..." Bernie cleared her throat nervously and fidgeted as she stood on the spot at the edge of the dusty garage.

"Aha!" A triumphant cackle pre-empted a swift change in tone as the ebullient, slightly oil-stained owner of the vehicle slid abruptly into view. "My mistake. Welcome, oh woman of mystery. Tell me, is it your usual practice to spy on racing drivers, or is it just my good self who is afforded such indulgent gawping? Nice binoculars by the way.”

Bernie was convinced that her larynx had ceased to function.

“Sorry…” she eventually stumbled, blushing scarlet.

“Not to worry. I quite like having a fan-club.” Serena Campbell climbed to her feet with a playful smirk.

“I saw you retire from the race… I thought I’d….” Bernie shrugged and tailed off weakly.

She didn’t know exactly what had prompted her to vacate her usual seat in the stands after the second lap and slip through the gateway to the pit lane, but an almost magnetic compulsion had led her to seek out the mysterious owner of the red Bugatti. After two weeks of anxious waiting for the next race meeting, she had felt drawn towards meeting the mysterious driver.

“Hmmm. Yes. Engine started making a god awful racket after the start, so I retired her early. Still... turns out it was nothing a little tinkering couldn't fix fairly quickly. Even if my blasted mechanic has decided to disappear off to the pub early.”

Serena swung herself over the side of the roadster and into the driving seat in a single agile movement.

"She's a complex little beastie to awaken at times. Especially when she’s thrown a sulk of today’s epic proportions.” She patted the steering wheel fondly.

A high pitched whine precluded a resonant explosion of pistons rattling into life. The burgundy-liveried beast stirred reluctantly from its slumber, emitting a deep guttural growl before settling into a throbbing contrabass purr which filled the small garage with a wall of sound.

Bernie could feel every vibration resonate deeply within her chest.

“Now, that's better..." Serena cooed fondly, more to the engine than anything else, as a sickly smog of petroleum billowed into life. Her foot caressed the accelerator and gently teased a reaction from the hovering brass-rimmed gauges. 

Captivated, Bernie moved closer, taking in every inch of the small craft.

“Beautiful…” she murmured appreciatively as she took in the sleek lines and numerous circular gauges.

“I’ll have to take you for a spin… show you what she can really do…Miss? Mrs?” Serena enquired casually as she silenced the mighty engine and jumped from the cockpit.

“Wolfe, I–,” Bernie broke off nervously as a small line of surviving cars filtered back past the open garage.

“Suitor of yours?” a deceptively light question from Serena as she nodded towards Marcus Dunn who had exited his MG roadster and was engrossed in earnest conversation with the tall Swedish gentleman responsible for overseeing the racing handicaps.

“He would certainly like to think so.” Bernie sniffed abruptly.

“Not keen then?” a raised eyebrow as Serena reached into her pocket and withdrew a small silver hipflask.

“I’m sure… I mean, he’s very… very…erm, _nice_ …” Bernie mumbled slightly as she fought to find an appropriate adjective to describe Marcus. “I mean, he’s a doctor, and always busy at the hospital or talking about engine design, or–”

“Bloody dull then?” Serena appeared to relish the profanity as she interjected, her plummy tones caressing the word almost proudly before she took a confident swig from the flask.

Bernie felt her cheeks flush slightly as she giggled at her new friend’s distinctly unladylike manners. “Well, rather I suppose…”

“I know the type,” Serena grinned cheekily as she proffered the metallic vessel towards Bernie. “I believe you may be in need of some fortification, Miss Wolfe.”

Bernie accepted and took a hasty draught at the thought of enduring one of Marcus’s rambling lectures upon the merits of European gearbox design. Although a rather larger gulp than intended, it was to her credit that she did not choke or allow the unmistakeable burning at the back of her throat and subsequent prickling of tears in her eyes to go noticed.

“I say…” Serena smirked approvingly, “Something tells me that your beau has driven you to drink before…”

“Military blood, I’m afraid. I have rather ungodly tolerance for alcohol which has seen me through many a dreary local society occasion. Bernie swallowed tightly. “Doesn’t affect me in the slightest.”

“Don’t say I’ve met my match at last?” Serena’s feigned an expression of surprise, her lipstick-stained mouth falling into a neat little crimson ‘O’ of coy shock. “I feel it only right that I shall have to test your somewhat extravagant claims at some point, should you wish to further my acquaintance?” her voice tailed off expectantly.

“I would be honoured, Mrs Campbell–”

“Serena. Just Serena, please…” her new acquaintance chuckled, a jovial hand landing lightly upon her forearm. “The less reference to my unfortunate late husband, the better.”

“Berenice,” Bernie smiled shyly in return, “Although when were first introduced, Marcus did call me Bernadette for at least the first month, so anything closer is a positive boon.”

“Berenice…Berenice Wolfe” Serena rolled the name experimentally around her tongue, luxuriously stroking every syllable with velvety caress from her alto voice, almost nodding approvingly at the many opportunities for vocal exploration.

“Well, I–”

“Bernie!”

Serena never finished her sentence. Instead, Dominic Copeland waved furiously and fought to extract himself from within the bustling crowd which had emptied out from the stands and was rapidly approaching the victorious Guy Self’s garage.

“I wondered where you’d got to today, I–”

He broke off nervously at the sight of his friend’s new companion.

“Mr Copeland, isn’t it?” Serena quirked her head inquisitively. “I never forget a face. Now, where have we met before? Ah…”

“Um, yes... I…” Bernie heard Dom uncharacteristically lost for words as he immediately flushed beetroot.

She could have sworn that the stylish brunette had thrown a fleeting yet discrete wink at her old friend. Curious to know more, she suppressed the irrational burst of jealousy which had bubbled into life at the other woman’s previous knowledge of her friend.

“You know each other?” Bernie cut swiftly across her friend’s disjointed floundering in a bid to spare him further embarrassment.

“Mutual friends up in London.” Serena turned and flashed her a winning smile without missing a beat which a clearly relieved Dominic weakly reciprocated. “I do believe that we’re both members of the same club. Met at that masquerade party a few weeks ago?”

“That would be correct.” Dominic collected himself rapidly and chuckled. “You made quite the impression dressed as Aphrodite, if I remember rightly, Mrs Campbell…”

“I never saw the point in doing anything in life by half measures…” Serena drawled, “fancy dress costumes included.”

“Here, here…” Bernie heard herself agree approvingly, her cheeks pinking slightly at the distracting thought of the vivacious brunette clad in precious little than a few artistically placed drapes.

Serena looked positively delighted at her new friend’s agreement, turning a dazzling smile upon Bernie which left her companion feeling more than weak at the knees. She quirked her head at a jaunty, questioning angle before lazily raising the hipflask to her lips in a facsimile of a toast.

“To never settling for half measures….”

“I–” Bernie sucked in a deep breath, more than aware of the fact that her surroundings had all but centred in on the captivating woman in front of her.

Her mouth was dry as her heartbeat thumped wildly within her chest.

_Marcus._ She gulped at the sight of her approaching suitor over Serena’s shoulder.

“Ah, talking of half measures…” Serena murmured distractedly, lowering the flask before the liquor met her lips, a slight frown gracing her forehead as she turned her head and followed Bernie’s distracted gaze over her shoulder.

The carefree sparkle abruptly faded from her eyes.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Wolfe.” She abruptly extended a slender hand in greeting, “I sincerely hope that our paths cross again.”

She allowed a small smile to grace her thin lips, almost in disappointment, before rapidly disappearing into the gloom of the garage once more.

 

“What was all that about?” Dominic enquired curiously as they continued to walk towards Marcus.

“I really don’t know…” Bernie murmured distractedly, attempting to regather her scattered thoughts.

“Looks as if someone’s made an impression upon Mrs Campbell anyway…” Dominic nudged her cheekily. “Told you racing was more interesting than playing tennis with the Jessop sisters!”

“Indeed.” Bernie acquiesced with a smirk. “Much more interesting…”

“You’ll have to see if you can persuade Marcus to teach you to drive next… or Mrs Campbell…” Dom allowed his last suggestion to tail off lightly.

“Oh, I don’t know…” Bernie pursed her lips. “I don’t know if my father would think that was a “suitable pursuit” for a young lady.” She emphasised the words with a pompous flair unnervingly characteristic of Jerome Wolfe’s usual bluster.

“Rubbish…” Dominic shook his head slightly as he lowered his tone.  “Without wishing to appear disrespectful, I’m firmly of the opinion that life is just too short to live one’s life solely according to the expectations of others.” He broke off abruptly as they reached Marcus.

 

“Good race today!” was Marcus’s choice of greeting. “Fourth was not too shabby given the shape of the field.”

“Indeed,” Bernie nodded vaguely in agreement at various points during Marcus’s rambling commentary before a pang of regret nudged her in the ribs.

“…but in the end, that new…”

“Wait, Marcus…” she took a deep breath and interrupted him. “Why don’t you tell Dom about the race over a drink in the bar? I’ll join you in a tic, I’m afraid that I just need to do something quickly first…”

At the first sign of a bemused nod of agreement from the two men, she turned decisively upon her heel and marched swiftly back down the pit lane towards the garage that she had just left.

 

“Mrs Campbell… Serena… I, I wonder if that ride may still be a possibility?” the words flew from her flustered mouth in a garbled rush as she rounded the corner, but still in an order that nevertheless still managed to coax a glorious smile from the other woman.

“But of course, it would be a pleasure …. here.”

Serena rummaged quickly in a dusty corner of the garage and extracted a white leather helmet similar to her own. She slowly approached and carefully stood on tiptoes, warmth radiating from the close proximity of her overall-clad body to Bernie's.

“I thought you’d come back…” she grinned wickedly.

Cool fingers grazed Bernie’s chin in a manner which elicited an electric shiver down the taller woman’s spine as Serena deftly fastened the buckles for her.

“I’m glad that you did.” The brunette added more softly as she raised her gaze to meet Bernie’s.

  

She was so close that she could feel the warmth of Serena’s breath tickling her cheeks.

 

So close that she could see the little creases in her lips beneath the crimson lipstick.

 

So close that….

 

"Very fetching!"

Bernie snapped abruptly to her senses at the sound of the other woman’s voice as Serena pulled away and smiled fondly before passing a pair of goggles to Bernie.

"You might want these..." she gestured to the single occupant windscreen by means of explanation which did precious little to shield the passenger from the howling gales attracted by travelling at speed.

Bernie gulped, her pulse fluttering with apprehension as she climbed carefully over the side of the car, inwardly cursing her outfit choice of a tailored day suit before stumbling and landing somewhat clumsily into the narrow seat of the Bugatti with a small squeak of surprise. She was promptly joined with somewhat more grace by Serena.

_What in the name of sanity are you doing, Wolfe?_

The mighty engine clattered into life. A gentle squeeze to the throttle and suddenly they were barrelling along the deserted tarmac of the pit lane.

"Ready?" Serena grinned excitedly as she paused on the edge of the white line which separated them from the main racing straight.

A swift thumbs up and a green flag waved by the steward granted them access to the course before an apprehensive Bernie could muster a reply.

Any words that she had formulated were knocked abruptly from her throat by the vicious acceleration, the mighty thoroughbred horsepower schooled into a rapid forward motion with a swift spur from Serena's impatient right foot.

A shriek from the supercharger accompanied the sweeping gallop toward the first corner. The rev counter rose, quivered and fell as the experienced driver swiftly changed gear and set her sights on hitting the apex of the bend at the maximum velocity available to her.

“Sod the bicycle,” was Bernie’s first inane thought to herself.

Careering down the steep gradient of Roofers Hill was tame in comparison to this visceral assault on the senses.

It was the most out of control she had ever felt, careering towards a cliff edge of abandoned reason, surviving from a diet of pure adrenaline and speed as the little Bugatti juddered violently over the bumps in the grey tarmac which whipped past the sides of the low-slung body of the car.

And yet, she also felt completely safe in Serena’s hands.

A comfortable taste of terror.

She was soaring, far above the clouds in an intoxicated haze as the passing Wyvern scenery blurred into an impressionist rendering of emerald trees and azure skies.

Breathless; giddily awaiting the disjointed arrival of her gasping body several moments behind her swooping spirit as the two women flew effortlessly through the series of tight chicanes which flanked the entrance to the woodland section of the climb.

Light flickered through the densely grouped trees in a dazzling strobe as the rejuvenated Bugatti spat and snarled indignantly at the gradient, mustering its enviable strength towards attaining the summit with a petroleum snort and a grating hiss of reluctant gears being firmly corralled into position. 

Bernie felt an electric jolt of pure fear as they cleared the blind summit with a throaty roar from the French engine and she caught her first glimpse of the rapidly approaching vertiginous slant of the banking.

_Surely they weren't about to..._

It looked even more terrifying from the seated perspective of the racing car cockpit.

A notorious, grey-faced, unforgiving mountain rising steeply from the tarmac.

Countless automotive mountaineers had met their deaths upon such slopes.

She looked across questioningly as Serena's jaw set in concentration before her hand dropped deftly and spun the narrow wooden wheel, timing a perfect swoop up onto the upper echelon of the tight curve.

The resulting angle resulted in the warm closeness of Serena's thigh to press tightly against Bernie's in the narrow cockpit.

Her knuckles were bone-white from clenching onto the edge of the dark leather seat for dear life as her companion set about fearlessly flirting with the boundaries of known physics.

She would later swear to a captive audience including Marcus and Dominic in the members’ bar that she could feel the boat-tailed rear of the car twitching impishly as it attempted to overtake the scrabbling front wheels. Serena would nonchalantly agree, to a chorus of amused laughter from the gathered crowd of onlookers that this was indeed a distinct possibility, but not one that she would even dare to let a car entertain as an option whilst she had hold of the controls.

The needle continued its determined pathway, steadfastly building velocity until the little black '100' was eclipsed by the juddering arrow and the Bugatti flew onto level grounds once more.

Bernie felt her face split into a euphoric grin as she dared let go her stranglehold upon the unfortunate upholstery and raised her trembling hands above her head into the shrieking current which whipped the turbulent air around the burgundy racing car.

An ecstatic whoop flew from between her lips in an exclamation of pure unbridled joy.

Serena turned her head slightly at the noise, audible even above the Bugatti’s noisy baritone and grinned with sheer delight at her passenger as the little car surged forward across the finish line.

Bernie met her gaze, wild eyed and flushed with excitement only to utter one word over the noisy roar of the engine.

 

“Again!”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bernie spends an increasing amount of time with Serena and building friendships within the racing team (1932).   
> The official police investigation into Edward Campell's death commences in 1929, but is Serena Campbell's alibi as solid as she would like others to believe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update! I know, I'm as surprised as you! ;)
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who is still reading and commenting/leaving kudos on my works *offers cookies*. I just haven't had the time to write much recently what with a house move, increased work hours and various submission deadlines for part of my PhD, writing has had to take a little bit of a backseat until now! 
> 
> Just as a quick reminder for those who haven't read this story recently- it is split between two timelines, one set in 1929 surrounding events involving the mysterious death of Edward Campbell and one in the summer of 1932 when Bernie meets and falls for Serena Campbell, a top racing driver at the Holby Speedway. Of course, the two timelines will eventually collide... 
> 
>  
> 
> Please let me know what you think- I'm a little nervous about posting this as I haven't written much at all recently and comments/constructive criticism really help!

**8th November 1929**

“Mayfair 235, please.”

A quaking hand held the Bakelite receiver to a pair of crimson lips, desperate to keep the tremor in her limb firmly absent from her voice.

“Connecting you now,” the telephone operator replied efficiently.

Serena chose to swallow tightly by means of thanks, attempting to choke back a dry retch of nausea which flooded into the back of her throat.

A soft click and a faint electronic hum reduced the vast swathes of English countryside separating Campbell Hall and the Belladonna Club to mere inches.

“Hello?”

A sultry purr somehow managed to render a simple word of greeting as an erotic invitation.

Background jazz music and the chaotic hustle and bustle of a crowded room infiltrated the call, echoing slightly in a tinny reproduction. The Belladonna was a secretive club concealed beneath the bustling foyers of the sparkling Kors Casino in central Mayfair and only accessible to those who knew to knock upon the seemingly innocuous navy blue door hidden at the rear of the premises. Admission was strictly only by prior invitation.

Serena could picture the painted scarlet talons which were almost certainly absent-mindedly toying with the trailing telephone cord. No doubt their owner was perched daintily upon her usual stool, clad in a typically glittering low-cut gown with a slashed low back and a pair of vertiginous heels. On an average day she would have little trouble in constructing a suitably witty repost which would result in a filthy cackle from her old friend.

Today, however, was a different case.

“Sian?” She whispered hoarsely, “Is that you?”

“Serena, darling! How lovely to hear from you!” Sian Kors chuckled and placed an ornate silver cigarette holder in the corner of her mouth.

She chose French over Turkish tobacco from an engraved little case which sat next to the telephone and nodded approvingly at the tightly curled blond hair of her reflection in the floor length mirror.

“I was wondering when we would next see you here- shall we say Friday at the usual time? There’s an absolutely to-die-for theme this week....” She smirked and the metallic click of a lighter being struck flickered across the line. “Right up your street…”

She inhaled deeply and blew an effortless chain of little smoke rings up into the hazy atmosphere of the crowded room.

“Sian...” Serena winced at her friend’s unintentional pun and her voice wavered and cracked. “I... Look, I need your help. Urgently.”

She glanced down disbelievingly at the drying blood which still caked her trembling hands and took a fortifying gulp from the crystal tumbler which sat to her right.

Whiskey burned her throat.

“Serena?” Sian’s voice was robbed of its usual brassy candour as she enquired concernedly about her friend. “What on earth’s happened?”

“Something I-, something has gone very badly wrong....”

Serena’s voice shook in panicked realisation as she sank back into the green quilted leather of the mahogany chair which sat behind her husband’s desk and took a ragged breath as she tried to avoid looking at the dark immobile mass that had somehow been dragged across the marble floor of the hallway and into the study.

“I think Edward’s dead....” she finally whispered.

* * *

**Thursday 7 th July 1932, Holby Speedway **

Midday sunshine streamed into the murky shadows of the dusky garages, illuminating little dust particles which eddied and danced in the warm breeze; the prelude to what surely promised to be an exquisite midsummers afternoon.

The background hum of cars filtered lazily into the Wyvern air; a chorus of automotive bumblebees buzzing periodically as the drivers set about making the necessary changes and developments for the forthcoming race meet.

Within the musty garage for car No. 19, a tall blonde woman swung her long legs from her perch upon a dusty workbench in a carefree manner, a soft smile adorning her features as she surveyed the increasingly familiar environment of the Holby Speedway and waved farewell to the departing team of mechanics who were heading to a nearby pub for a well-earned lunch.

Several weeks had passed since Berenice Wolfe had first met the notorious Serena Campbell, and subconsciously, the medic’s daughter had taken any opportunity that had presented itself to travel to the racetrack to watch the famed driver at work. Serena for her part had all but positively encouraged Bernie’s little diversions to the track and had even gone as far as to gently pin her enamel Members’ Club badge to Bernie’s lapel one day in order to spare her the need to use the public entrance to the course.

The morning test runs were Bernie’s favourite by far. It was the unseen hours of work that went into the short burst of thrilling activity on race day, the sight of Serena and her mechanics Adrian Fletcher and Raf di Lucca poring over an open engine bay in oil-stained overalls: discussing, tinkering, making miniscule adjustments to the very heart of the car with an almost surgical precision, dedicated solely towards the pursuit of speed. Ideas were discussed, debated, trialled, cast aside in frustration or adopted with victorious glee. Bernie was even starting to get involved herself, thoroughly enjoying the freedom of a relaxed morning in the company of a group of people she now wouldn’t hasten to call friends.

This morning had finally seen the breakthrough that the team had sought for weeks, and as such Serena Campbell was in exceptionally good spirits.

 

“Will I do?” a playful voice enquired from the depths of the garage.

 

Bernie Wolfe was snapped out of her daydreaming by the sight of a freshly scrubbed Serena Campbell emerging from behind a makeshift screen. Little droplets of water clung stubbornly to the ruffled tips of her freshly washed bobbed hair. A blue towel was slung lazily across her shoulders to collect the worst of the remaining moisture. Her makeup devoid face glowed with a faint echo of a tan from the numerous hours spent beneath the rays of the summer sun; the copious splattering of oil from the morning’s test runs removed. Her shapely figure was effortlessly showcased (albeit somewhat daringly) by a flowing scarlet blouse, tucked into a pair of tailored dark slacks at the waist and teamed with a pair of two-tone brogues which peeped out curiously from beneath the hems of the wide-legged trousers.

It somehow felt strangely intrusive, almost as if seeing the famed driver without the gloss and veneer reserved for the outside eye was somehow more revealing, more intimate than if the fully clothed woman stood in front of her had been stark naked; a thought which sent a crimson flush to Bernie’s cheeks and an anxious flutter to her chest.

“Sorry,” Bernie shuffled awkwardly, aware that Serena stood awaiting her reply. “It’s- you look perfect.” She allowed a genuine smile of appreciation to blossom upon her lips which was gently reciprocated by the other woman.

“Coffee?” Serena’s eyes twinkled fondly as she brandished a small tartan flask that she had brought with her by means of clarification. “Might be a bit stewed by now, but I think there’s a drop left.”

“Strong and hot is all I care about in this instance.” Bernie smiled over the rim of a battered enamel mug at the cackle that she managed to draw from her friend.

“Well, quite…” Serena’s voice had dropped to a low purr as she tossed aside a discarded helmet and gloves and seated herself in front of a small mirror at the end of the workbench and hastily began to apply a thin coating of makeup.

“We can’t seem to keep you away from the track at the moment, Berenice...” she attempted to converse clumsily through half-pouted lips, a frown of concentration gracing her brow as she carefully applied mascara and the particular hue of shocking red shade of lipstick that she seemed to favour. “Oh, I’m far from trying to discourage you!” Bernie’s face had evidently fallen as she hastily reached out and patted Bernie’s knee in reassurance, “Have you caught the motoring bug at last?”

“Something like that…” Bernie shrugged as she swigged from her mug. “At least by listening to all of the technical jargon that Fletch and Raf seem to spout on a daily basis, I have some means of understanding whatever Marcus happens to be wittering on about at any precise moment.”

“Ah yes, how is the celebrated Dr Dunn?…” Serena’s voice was deceptively light but barely masked the implied meaning of her question.

“Still very much himself. I think he’s unable to race this weekend as he’s on duty at the hospital, but we were planning to meet for lunch instead.”

She set her mug down on the side with a soft clink and a sigh which hardly betrayed excitement at the prospect of Marcus’s plans.

“Oh I don’t know…It doesn’t help that my father seems set on the idea of us eventually marrying. It all seems too contrived, too convenient… I quite think he fancies the idea of his future son-in-law inheriting the medical practice eventually...”

“Your father is Jerome Wolfe?” Serena’s hand stilled upon her face in realisation, caught in the midst of applying powder.

“Yes. Didn’t I say before?” Bernie frowned slightly at the expression on Serena’s face.

“No. No matter.” Serena’s voice had returned to its usual confident register as she granted her reflection a brief nod of approval and bundled the scattered makeup into a small satin bag.

“Well, boring suitors and family expectations aside, what say you to the idea of finding somewhere for a spot of lunch, Miss Wolfe? I have got a picnic hamper with me with probably enough in it to feed the entire pit lane, and it seems a shame for it to go to waste, especially on such a beautiful day…” Serena’s voice was at its most persuasive as she rose to her feet. “You’re not required at the hospital today, are you?”

“No, not today,” beamed a pleasantly-surprised Bernie, all notions of any other vague plans for the afternoon (including her lunch with Marcus) disappearing in an instant. “Perfect!”

Within minutes the two women were barrelling through the sunbathed Wyvern countryside with Bernie clutching onto the wicker hamper which was perched on her lap for dear life as Serena seemed to approach the twisting country lanes with the same speed and determination that she displayed upon the racetrack. A loud squeak of surprise from her left as lunch made its fourth attempt to jettison itself from the vehicle made Serena’s face illuminate with joy as she sneaked a glimpse at her passenger who was vaguely visible behind a mass of dishevelled blond hair which was whipping freely around her face in the turbulent air.

“Left here!” Bernie bellowed above the engine, gesticulating as best she could with a small banquet perched in her lap. “It’s beautiful at the top of the hill… one of my favourite….” Her words were torn from her mouth and lost to the wind, but Serena had evidently gained the gist of the broken conversation as she swung off the main road and began the brutal climb to the top of Roofers Hill.

 

Several miles away below them in the pub garden of the Crown Inn in East Holby, Marcus Dunn eventually gave up on the hope of his would-be girlfriend materialising for lunch, convinced himself that evidently an urgent case had arrived at the hospital which required Bernie’s attention and ordered himself another pint of beer.

* * *

 

  **12 th November 1929: Lenton Police Station**

**10:00 AM**

“Can you confirm your whereabouts on the night of the 8th November nineteen hundred and twenty-nine, Mrs Campbell?”

Inspector Robert Medcalf opened the leather bound notebook which sat directly in front of him and began taking notes in flowing handwriting.

“Of course Inspector. As I have already stated, I dined with my husband and our houseguests–”

“By houseguests, you mean Mr Guy Self and his daughter?” Inspector Medcalf interrupted.

“Correct.” The senior policeman visibly flinched at the caustic glare that had been thrown his way following his somewhat bullish interruption.

“Shall I continue?” enquired a raised eyebrow from the elegant woman clad in a striking scarlet coat.

 Rather sensibly, Robert Medcalf chose to nod mutely by means of reply.

“Good. Where was I?... Ah, yes. I dined with my husband and our guests and retired to my room shortly afterwards after feeling unwell. After a couple of hours’ rest, I boarded the train to London with Miss Zosia Self and we spent the rest of the evening at Kors Casino in Mayfair. We stayed overnight with a friend in London before returning to Lenton in the morning to the news that my husband had rather unfortunately been found dead. And yes, before you ask, both Miss Self, Mrs Sian Kors and no doubt several members of railway staff between Lenton and London can all corroborate my version of events.”

“I see, thank you Mrs Campbell.” Robert’s hand was flying across the creamy manuscript like an inky spider web. “Mrs Campbell, to the best of your knowledge, did your husband have any known enemies, anyone who may wish him harm?”

“Only the enraged fathers of several mysteriously pregnant housemaids that he dismissed over the years. Apart from that, just the usual debtors and business rivals…” Serena resorted to her usual brand of unflinching honesty.

“Your husband was unfaithful to you?” the fountain pen paused suspiciously above the page.

“Countless times; that was apparently one of his dubious little charms.” Serena replied baldly. She leant forward and met the policeman’s gaze directly across the desk.  “I’ll be frank with you, there was little love lost between us, Inspector, but that does not mean that I sought to murder my own husband! Mutual disinterest was a much more than effective means of killing off our marriage without a single drop of blood being shed, thank you very much.”

A slightly rattled Medcalf decided to take an alternative route in his questioning.

“Were you also aware that it appears that several items of silverware have disappeared from within a display cabinet in the hallway? Their absence was first noticed yesterday by a Miss Liberty Williams, a housemaid in your establishment, who noticed a broken catch and a small amount of broken glass surrounding the case…”

Serena snorted derisively.

“Strangely enough, checking the household inventory was slightly lower in my concerns than the fact that I returned home to find my spouse sprawled across the hallway floor, _Inspector._ ” She emphasised his rank with obvious disdain.

Robert Medcalf sighed inwardly.

It was going to be a long morning.

 

**10:30AM**

“Doctor Jerome Wolfe’s report has indicated that the time of death was somewhere between ten and eleven o’clock on the night of the eighth. You claim to have returned to Campbell Hall at approximately half-past eleven that night, and that you were the person to initially discover the body?”

“Yes, nasty business.” Guy Self exhaled slowly before taking a long draught from a silver hip flask. “It’s coming to something when one can’t even go out for an evening without returning to find one of your oldest friends butchered in his own hallway. Good chap, Edward Campbell. Sad to think he’s gone. We were business partners once upon a time. Liked a drink, perhaps a little roguish in his own way, but a fundamentally good chap all the same.”

He lowered his voice conspiratorially, “His wife however…”

A shake of the head.

“Don’t let the flirting and the “butter-wouldn’t-melt” demeanour fool you Inspector, she’s as sharp and conniving as they come...”

 

**11:00AM**

Wild eyes darted nervously from one side of the confines of the small interview room to the other. The woman squirmed anxiously in her seat like a helpless young doe caught in a snare as she awaited the return of the detective.

_Breathe._

Teeth worried nervously at a sliver of loose skin which clung to the edge of a faintly chapped lip until a narrow ooze of blood threatened to escape down her chin.

_Just keep calm._

Breaths came in short rasps as she attempted to collect her composure.

_Keep it together._

The door opened and an unreadable expression slid effortlessly into place like a shield.

“Miss Self, I do apologise for the delay.” Robert Medcalf apologised as he seated himself opposite the young heiress.

“Not at all.” The raven-haired woman nodded swiftly, a brisk smile cutting fleetingly across her lips. She could feel her pulse fluttering manically in the side of her throat; invisible to the observing eye.

“It would be greatly beneficial if you could confirm your version of events from the night of the eighth of November.”

“My father and I were staying with the Campbell’s for a few days… Mr Campbell and my father were old friends from university I believe. A relatively uneventful few days anyway, well until all of this…”

“What happened that evening, Miss Self?”

“We dined early, I believe… Mrs Campbell and I had planned to travel to London, whilst my father and Mr Campbell were going to spend the evening at the hall. But then…”

“Go on.” A quiet prompt.

 “I must confess that an almighty row blew up over dinner…”

Medcalf’s pen pounced triumphantly upon the new detail as if it had struck gold.

Frantic scribbles embellished the empty page. 

“…a terrible disagreement between Mrs Campbell and my father… my father stormed out of the house and Mrs Campbell retired upstairs saying that she felt unwell. I followed shortly afterwards, leaving Mr Campbell downstairs. I didn’t see him again, I think he had retired into his study for the evening by the time that Mrs Campbell knocked on my door and asked if I still wanted to travel up to London for the evening as we had initially planned. We caught the nine-thirty train from Lenton station and arrived at Kors Casino in Mayfair for about eleven o’clock I think… anyway, one thing led to another and we missed our last train home, but we stayed overnight with Mrs Kors before returning on the first train in the morning… to the awful news that Mr Campbell had been killed.”

She fell silent and resumed the act of twisting her hands in her lap.

“A disagreement about what, Miss Self? Can you remember?”

She shook her head slightly and sighed, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can… it all happened so fast…”

“I quite understand…” Medcalf granted his young interviewee a rare, gentle smile which was tautly reciprocated. “It is quite distressing to be caught in the middle of others conflict, is it not?”

Zosia nodded cautiously and provided scant replies to any further questions.

 

Rising to stand upon a pair of quaking legs, she still found it within herself to smile graciously at the Inspector as she exited the room to an encouraging wink from a fur-clad Sian Kors who was seated waiting patiently for her interview. The tall, immaculately dressed blonde swept towards her in a haze of expensive perfume and a friendly pat of reassurance upon the arm.

“Miss Self! How lovely to see you again, albeit in such unpleasant circumstances…” a warm twinkle was present in the older woman’s voice before a slight cough from behind attracted her attention.

“Ah, the famous Inspector Medcalf. Pray tell, how can I be of assistance?” slender fingers hastily released their grip from her arm as Sian turned to greet the Inspector with a typically radiant smile. “Horrible business, isn’t it?”

The familiar sultry purr was all that Zosia heard as she left the police station, her trembling fingers clenched tightly around the small envelope that had been deftly slid up her sleeve as she stepped out into the cold November drizzle.

A lifeline.


End file.
